Jane Medved

TODAY’S ANATOMY

I'm not thinking of the trickle of water across my balcony,
how it might be the leak that tripled our water bill.

All summer long I didn't pay attention. I was busy not thinking
about the travels of your body, the blocked avenues

of upper and lower. I was staring at the many tubes
inserted in your neck, what did they call it, the central line?

I am trying to forget the constant beeping. Slow and steady
means all is well. Rapid means get a nurse if I can find one.

I'm not thinking that one pipe under the garden could break
without me ever knowing, a slow drip that empties over time.

Sometimes I wander past every swept corner not thinking about
what happens if we can't pay the mortgage, or the sound

I would make if I tripped on the stairs. I'm not thinking of
the synapse that stalls before its station, all the missed conversations

between motor and nerve. I'm expert at ignoring the brain's bright
beacon, focused instead on not having to care.

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